From: still Host instruction kitA black lava cave polished smooth by water, high lights of white ash embedded like snowflakes embellish the dark motif-, is in imagined stages of occupation, when young a place where nameless practice ritual and i too hid beneath a hood and mumbled words that resonated in impossible stone,-. - then later as the place of solitude in garments like morose prince who's occupation is to brood and nothing else, and at last to occupy, and nothing else, without fantasy of another living or delusions of this, going there, because, it is the place to go, where the I am most allowed. I flip a stone or other thing for art example, many miles into the earth down narrow pathways and slick tunnels-, and nothing else. Perhaps lost to the world that knew I had a name and wondered at me like everybody does of every other thing, but, through this hole and through this action that I take in here, I am never lost, but only somewhere else, and doing, something else. Approaching any hole, the center in a typhoon as you chase it to the mountain waiting on a ledge for tempting fate and the other side to come, or jumping down into a stream and looking for its grip, you push the past and all it made aside, and leave the things that passed into the making of the fortress in favor of the place where you yourself become the one you know the least of all. Becomes a liturgy, becomes a litany-. The body builds up to the swell and plunges every time a little loosing if its hold and when and if you come around a turn and find familiar, you should do the thing again, to see if you can break this habit too, by making it the last, by ending repartition through a final blow against the sediment accumulating as increasing detail of a simple folkish tale -.. shake the vessel then, so that it is pulled away from endless drydock- shake the vessel, shake off what makes a poem a tome, to essence, something like that point of gravity, with no tool there to make it more-. tread, a perfect path- Five places marked by enamel red colors on the glass are there, are there to direct you, to give aesthetic form to the compound most familiar to all, the mix within the individual intersection in unwakefullness and sleep-. Mark, pull down and place, put it on a surface and begin a map and a list made to suggest the story background most convenient to each set for continuity and future agreement of the parts. Like seeing some past dead friend speak or face on the spiders back that seems too familiar and the spider's gait is one you know, is one you know. And there was robbery later, and children destroy a twenty foot spider's web that crosses the sky, and crush the spider with a stone, a melancholy man has been hanging in an abandoned building for two weeks, and two men on fire run from a concrete house. And the taste of moon fruit makes events seem smooth and a seamless opening closed. And we this little group stood beside the cement blocks and we painted them, and they took on the likenesses of colors - and color things - and there were simulated feelings of good cheers and we were well paid. And then this our group gathers the following day and converge and comment on change and sameness and this is how we pass the time, as a calendar of of observation and comment in action. And each is partly in their hole of lava, cold to save them from sub-tropic heat, and wet and water pungent with mineral runs as waterfalls from polished alabaster walls - and shape it shifts as if a magic maze, when corridors are where just before they were not, and rooms emerge and volumes ripen and wither, and gaps collapse and look to be fit together by a master mason-. Earthquake brings such evolutions and it is so strong that even in the mind, it moves along and alters memories of all the things that may bemoved, from day to day. And foreign bodies come, and places move to fit into a different person's set of past events, but still as if the dirty bitten center of a battery, a simple thing remains and is unmoved, and isn't even moved bynaming it, and hands that go to grip or hold are suddenly and painfully pulled,and tendons catch over knuckles and bone and click and fingers pop as muscles make them open and close, so that nothing can be held without discomfort of the holding, and in that the holding is made more sure. In the cavities of twelve smaller cracks, there is accumulation of distinguishing talk and writing and words in many different forms. Becoming most like departments of emerging traditions we small group draw hard on several straws that vary in width, and like traditions we like in our guava gardens grow a second and a third mouth on our face and on our neck and along the jaw -and sip through various straws from smaller cracks, and so hard our veins will break and then through wider straws, we breathe and suck more freely, and life is more relaxed. I am watching, I have taken skin from dragon fruit and put it in the sun and watch the fading of the neon pink and see the cup shape pucker and collapse and geometric forms emerging from the sides are now just brittle brown and indistinct from shit, and no longer, they are not emerging, they have given up. There is a line that has no width on which it is impossible to stand, so many pile and close on one side and the other of the line - is this enough? Experience the nature of mass but not an edge - render up that body, that clumsy point, but far away it is a closer thing to gross geometry from far away experience is closer to the truer forms. CYCLE DOWN,

Nighttime is a stupor on the earthwhen working sleeps

and freed to wanderwith a switch turned offusing up the last turns of the key-and waiting for collapse when fish eyes,blank and flat, will come-It was a universal role,that roles and roles,until, one day,it finds a walland beats against itfor the rest of time.How would you know unless you wentand waited, like the others,pick-up trucks, ice barges, crates of mangos,canned ham soaking in a puddle of vodkafrom a bottle that was dropped and broke in shards-How would you know, if you didn't wait outsidewhile the post office and the department storeprepared to open..I wonder would the smell escapeif there was no grate..would it fall inon it selfTwo weeks hanging from a beam,and the mountains are never the same from day to day..

I am waiting on with caution while I ready for the time to serve…I am volumes soft to loud that play a drama made of shapes containing sound…I am the sensation you have when you are feeling to ill to eat but still are hungry…I am the extra piece of the puzzle…I am the plunging difference that blooms across my chest…I am the boat caught in the seaweed out to sea beyond land…I am the rise and fall of liquid used to measure in a vial…I am the filter in the pipe which keeps you free from choking…I am the foolish among the sound, the firm against the loose, the weed among the wheat, the…I am the bowl you drop the key in, plus, an article of faith…I am the glass orb seeing all the way around…I am the juices that fill the bag…I am the preparation of the skills needed to follow the path through the hills…I am the mix of greatness, held below the poorness…I am the purpose blocked by a steel horizon…I am the focused depths of scratching…I am the substance of the color red mingling with stainless steel balls…I am the singer with nine throats…I am the story written by 12 undertakers…I am the union of children without minds, who take from parents, and subjugate…I am prophets of a thousand pathways, the eaters of foods on the run…I am that that is the seed only, I am that that is the jism only…I am the approach of a hyper-life, a dismissal of the material and a permanent dominance until passing, of the spirit…Solid pack the messages into boxes, dense spaced words and image, rushes to the grain as does the juice of life, while then you stretch the word, in lines, phrases short with long plain between the fragments, feeding brain smally and shortly…

AndI am the prism that is a door to windows, …I am various fruit combined to drink in pulp, but with cancelations of taste…I am production not available to own…I am available information to use to support fabrication of argument and opinion, as many as can be counted…I am making order of uniform paper, in uniform stacks, in sequences of invisible criteria…I am the darkening of light colors using smoke…I am slow turning from a fixed point to any direction in a surrounding globe…I am the rebirth of experimental artists of the last century ….I am the insertion of the wedge, and the harvest of the sap of greatness in arts and intellectualism so hated in my country of origin…I am the antithetical rejection and polar magnetism affecting self reference and the reference of intellectualism with intellectual discourse…I am that that would ignore and through it sabotage the sacred low culture…I am that that returns to each claim and fraction of ideas and expounds…I am that that constructs compositions in the form of the classic emblem…I am the inventor who holds no copy rite or patent who’s grave is ready, with a wooden marker, with no name…I am that that is taken and not acknowledged…I am that that adapts to silence yet lives on…I am that that moves in air as if in fluid…I am the distended resurrection and correction…I am the blue of blood after the red…I am the breathing through the passage…I am the one who crawls throughout a lifetime from one end of a tunnel toward the other…I am the love between my mate and myself, filled as much as possible to the limit and edge of the autonomic system, which could be overridden by this encroaching mass…I am the happiness and optimism bound as two combs with sadness and despair, which battle for supremacy internally and force the upper over-viewer to experience the one in entirety, then the other purely, back to back over extended time in which one SEEMS to gain dominance, though that as well alternates analogically…I am the rubberization of the brittle…I am the choice in the mandated procedure…I am the movement alive through the stasis and the stiffness and the stillness…I am the frozen stare in the powered eyes that dart like rabbits through the visual maze…I am the sharpened arrow that is one thought, or a spear of impression – that may be descended from the thought, or precede it – I am that, that is a hardened ball of clay which started as a tendency of matter, which was sufficient to realize the creation as an act, the generation of proper conditions, and fabrication of substance that lend its existence to this initial tendency… I am, this cyclic circumstance…I am theft and free giving, and indifferent victimization…and, the sharing without explicit permission…I am the simultaneous experience of multiple perspectives, more than that understood in a brain by multiple senses or several eyes, but more like multiple brains, linked as the four stomachs of a cow which share a throat…I am the thing which hopes its use of signs in a language will improve with use and submergence…

I am the object of a bracket with many slots, each the same as another, but in this, flexible, which may be adapted to display improvement as a concept from a first slot, to a last, in improving portions, displaying the effect as quantity, and in the last slot, imbedded there, a plan for a further bracket to follow, displaying quality as a concentration of substance, that seems reverse in physical aspects of the model, of the quantitative model… I am being, I am defense, and involvement before I know, I am born late in life into what I am, but take it on from subconscious stem…I am the rubberized bracket with slots that stretch, with slots that snap when stretched, but form then two slots from the one pulled…I am strength when my outer form is plunged into unfamiliar…I am the patience of fermentation…I am the exchange of inequal goods…I am a force that distinguishes and I am an education demanding to be fed, as I have a demanding appetite for my effortI am MUTUALIZATION… of seven bodies of food types, and 300 food preparations from one material, such as cartilage…I am the fixed of the broken rods, using glue and tape…I am training and conditioning…I am the rebuilt so to be as new but with a log of history…I am a preparation that brings health to small areas on its application, but which causes atrophy when more broadly applied…I am a depository of mechanical equipment, levers and gears that may be unearthed from the ground where buried in metal canisters they are the pillow allowing the fearful one to sleep at night…I am the unprepared, and the one who lives on faith that there is no need to plot survival beyond an imagined devastation…I am the festering and the lively stew where ingredients are elements in future compounds…I am the modification of a stationary thing to a mobile thing, on wheels, and then a portable thing, stripped of unnecessary weight, and made smaller with replacement elements of reduced mass-…I am one supply that encourages one variety of culture from use, which diminishes, and is replaced by a second supply, which stimulates a second kind of culture…I am a fished out planet…I am a series of reductions using bi-products of a first source……like the artist thinks, who spends the time alone, and selfish, that there is destiny in choices, to have child, to marry, to influence, to lead a life with designed purpose, …Destiny destiny destiny, …I am the anticipation of the next moment…I am the sustained work and confidence… I am suspension of outer engagement of lower gears, moving, larger, not, and lower brought to peace, in movement, turning, unreleased, invisible, withheld for purpose, in reserve, etc…I am the only who looks out this way, I am not the only only…I am the surface of one hour, and the muscle of the next, while the organs of the following, and the skeleton of a final hour…I am always but not apparent with short interruption of presence…I am light but heavy on feet, weighty and small posts to balance on, flat long platforms with a tiny pin that’s balance on the top, and small brained tightly packed…I am the hair color, or eyelids, but not the eye color, I am some body part but not the skin, I am passed on of height, but not the shape of my head… I am adventure I would imagine for another, I am adventure of the future shared…I am the unused time squandered, the exhibition of the product of task in a labor museum or propaganda pamphlet…I am the thing an elder says is wasted time in pursuing – I am leisure and essence of an art…I am flesh and blood turned to stone…I am long commitments…I am an existence in this world, I have influence of being…I am the sweat of torment…I am sweat of lovemaking with her…I am the heat in Taiwan…I am a culmination, I am the present condition leading to a future partly determined and largely unwritten…I am the living into the next day…I am the resting place on the mountain ledge …I am the exercise that clears the mind…I am the one word that replaces the three…I am to scuttle low culture…I am to shave letters from the ends and the beginnings of words…I am four seasons compressed…I am shorthand for life extension…I am the one who must find a more subtle plan…I am the line of objects in single file row stretching across the galaxy…I am a fear of extinction…I am one charging with elbow up…I am only remembering everything having to do with fish…

I am transforming image to sound, to a language, to an object, to a live experience, and back to the first in a ring…I am that that is missing appointments…I am that that is simply driven, I am that that is compelled by overriding of plans imposed by front brain, I am the suppression of the back…I am the sequence of a follower, and am followed by the leader…I am the appearance of stone but made from paper…I am the one on its way whose neck will not turn the head back…I am the safety latch that is broken…I want my wife…I am praying…I am learning how to be solid as if poured…

I am learning how to age…I am the post driven into the ground in a field of blades of grass, each blade a different shading of the blade next to it, so that there are many millions upon millions of blades of grass, and the field is a flowing in waves of color in all degrees, and the grass is tall, so when the wind is blowing, the waves of color are complimented and excelled by the waves of movement, all in ripples, all in dynamic flux…I am the fence over which I jumped to pass a test in my youth, so I could win a badge, and I am the nail on which I was caught and was ripped, for which I achieved nothing…I am the postal address, and I am the familiarity with the surrounding which allows me a place, which gives me feelings of belonging and safety, and which I should reject to following the drives of the spirit… i am the one who is going away…I am as the torn muscle which comes back stronger…I am the one who should submit to direction, but who dismisses it and strips it of power…I am the tightened entity among the slackened… I am the projection of egotism on the events, thinking I am center and cause…I am the happiness of a manic upswing…I am the oceanic splash, I am the depths of the oceanic fall…I am the crab on the beach, I am the eater of decomposition, I am the champion of composition…I am the swallower, I am the spewer…I am the table standing on three legs,I am the chair with the sunken seat…I am the column of gas…I am the organizer and the tangle of weeds…I am the changing state in the middle of a chemical reaction of parts…I am the confusion…I am the struggle in a jar of a dumb brain and a smart brain…I am a selection of specimens from abandoned gardens…I am finger exercises for developing independent movement…I am deposits of bone radiating around small fractures…

I am a symbol for rotation of large machinery, which must be accomplished with several lifts and hoists…I am the struggle for vulgar possession…I am the wakefulness and the influential power of the softest whisper…I am contained, and I am boxed and secured by ropes, and I am the prematurely entombed solution to a forgotten problem…I am the underneath of most things that has received less attention than the sides or the top…I am last stages of the crumbling…I am the verbal equivalent of the moss growing on the boulder that is emitting an acid, slowly corroding the host…I am as the urchin with its tiny stingers, reaching out to fish…I am an answer that prompts many questions, and when I am done being that, I am the question with as many answers…I am a solid understanding, and an insecurity like a water vapor…I am the coupled thing that must have a partner, and I am the partner before it that has no needs…I am rough and I am tide-like…I am the perception of the things I perceive…I am this, as evidence of my being as a living thing…I am the continuation of the past time in a gradual expansion of some aspect, as seemed most natural to evolve, and I am the next rendering of this project, which expands a second aspect in a like way… I am as like two options for one life…I am the softest singing voice of a sea mammal…I am the desire that wants eternity for its own purposes…I am an inflated sack a moment before it ruptures…I am the conclusion that comes before trial…I am what must be externally engaged to grow…I am teething on a wooden dowel…I am that flat area with mounds surrounding, and a place of boiling clouds…I am a three tiered surface with digestion flowing in a river across the floor…I am that below the street, …I am on the fifth floor of the Taipei public library... they close in fifteen minutes, it is raining outside, I am reading books in English…I am wading through…I am imagining and I am wondering what is possible…and what parts of imagining are beyond…I am the essence of a storage unit of a relative with unknown contents…I am the demand, for what is needed, and the demand, for what should be discarded…I am what never grew away from the tiny town, I am the one who stayed, and became as a child…I am punctuations in a broth, at first an indentation which disappears into the regained surface…I am the stranger who notices all the doorways and planters on a rainy night, as he walks by, like he has never seen before…I am also another stranger, who is using his sense of smell for the first time – he doesn’t know quite what it means…I am that hovering, between familiar discomforts and the surprise of next ness, and the impossibility of complete transformations from one species to another – I am that that mutates through a generation, our hybrid children… this is a vision, and keeps reality in place, that there is a doorway of the possible that leads through into the impossible, and that is how most things are transformed…I am that unlikely pollution of workable parts, a grit that coats them, which seems to come from nowhere, and suddenly, and makes them each act as if filled by some bad spirit, behaving unpredictably and oppositely the purposes they were developed for -…I am the special exit opening which allows departure but not reentry – in a later time, I become the opening which allows entry but not exit - , I am not sure which should come first in a system, or which was devised first for it- and, if it was devised FROM the inside, or out…I am twelve information sources for one thing, and one informational source for twelve things…I am the shared items on a tabletop left by a previous tenant in an apartment in Indonesia…I am various test preparations made while dreaming…I am the shoes which must be discarded in time because they grow too large…I am the trance dancer who after ten hours of movement and exorcism returns to quietly tend his chickens in the isolated village…Evasive Principle of the canvas, with the canvas space so obviously not the center of any event, but a side-line that is slipping away from the observer out of the frame- this is how, you must tip something so the weight is an ineffective doorstop, so that entry is possible by appropriate means of evading the system by stepping in from outside while the systems’ world is tipped within ANOTHER world through the air like a plane descending to a runway and landing on it the plane in movement , the runway stopped, and then the plane is stopped, and then the world resumes of lines and taxis moving out the contents of the plane OUT into the second world.